Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

“Five minutes?” I tucked the phone closer to my chest and squinted at my toes, trying to decide whether it was possible to survive in Hollywood with badly chipped toenail polish, or if I’d be fined by the pedicure police. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Preseason softball,” my mother said briskly. “We’re scrimmaging the Lavender Menace.”

“Are they any good?”

“They were last year. But you’re changing the subject. Now, you’re living with Maxi…,” my mother began, her voice trailing off hopefully. Or at least I thought that’s what I detected.

“We’re just friends, Ma,” I said. “The platonic kind.”

She sighed. “It’s not too late, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I’m having fun,” I said. “I’m having a great time.” I barely knew where to start. I’d been in California for almost three weeks, and every day, it seemed, Maxi and I went on some adventure, some little trip in Adrian’s red convertible, which felt more and more like an enchanted chariot, or a magic carpet, every day. Last night after dinner we’d walked all the way to Santa Monica Pier, and bought greasy, salty-sweet french fries and frozen pink lemonade, which we’d eaten while dangling our feet in the water. The day before we’d gone to a farmer’s market downtown, where we’d filled a backpack with raspberries and baby carrots and white peaches, which Maxi distributed to her fellow cast members (except for her costar because, she reasoned, he’d see the peaches as an invitation to make Bellinis – “and I don’t want to be the one responsible for his falling off the wagon this time”).

There were things in California that I still hadn’t gotten used to – the uniform beauty of the women, for one, the way every other person I saw in the coffee bars or gourmet grocery stores looked vaguely familiar, like they’d played the girlfriend or the second banana’s buddy on some quickly cancelled sitcom from 1996. And the car culture of the place astonished me – everyone drove everywhere, so there weren’t any sidewalks or bicycle lanes, just endless traffic jams, smog as thick as marmalade, valet parking everywhere – even, unbelievably, at one of the beaches we’d visited. “I have now, officially, seen everything,” I told Maxi. “No, you haven’t,” she’d replied. “On the Third Street Promenade there’s a dachshund dressed up in a sequined leotard that’s part of a juggling act. Once you’ve seen that, you’ve seen everything.”

“Are you working at all?” asked my mother, who didn’t sound impressed with tales of juggling dachshunds and white peaches.

“Every day,” I told her, which was true. In between adventures, and outings, I was spending at least three hours a day on the deck with my laptop. Violet had sent me a script so larded with notes it was practically unreadable. “DO NOT PANIC,” she’d written in lavender-colored ink on the title page. “Purple notes are mine, red notes are from a reader the studio hired, black from the guy who may or may not wind up directing this – and most of what he says is bullshit, I think. Take everything with a grain of salt, they are SUGGESTIONS ONLY!” I was gradually working through the thicket of scribbled marginalia, cross-outs, arrows, and Post-it addenda.

“So when are you coming home?” my mother asked. I bit my lip. I still didn’t know, and I’d have to make up my mind – and soon. My thirtieth week was quickly approaching. After that, I’d either have to find a doctor in Los Angeles and have the baby here, or find a way to get home that didn’t involve an airplane.

“Well, please let me know your plans,” my mother said. “I’d be delighted to give you a ride home from the airport, and maybe even look at my grandchild before his or her first birthday…”

“Ma…”

“Just a motherly reminder!” she said, and hung up.

I got to my feet and walked down to the sand, Nifkin bouncing at my heels, hoping he’d get to chase his tennis ball into the waves.

I knew that I’d have to figure it out eventually, but things were going so well that it was hard to think of anything but the next perfect, sunny day, the next delicious meal, the next shopping trip or picnic or walk on the beach under the starry sky. Aside from the occasional memory of Bruce and our happier times together, and absent the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next in my life, my time at the beach house was basic unmitigated bliss.

“You should stay here,” Maxi would say. I never said yes, but I never said no, either. I tried to figure it out the way I’d once investigated my brides, turning the question over and over in my mind: Could this life fit me? Could I really live this way?

I thought about it at night, when my work was done and the food was cooking, and Nifkin and I would stroll along the water’s edge. “Stay or go?” I’d ask, waiting for an answer – from the dog, from the baby, from the God who had failed to instruct me back in November. But no answer came – just the waves and, eventually, the starlit night.

On my third Saturday morning in California Maxi walked into the guest bedroom, flinging open the curtains and snapping her fingers at Nifkin, who darted to her side, ears pricked up alertly, like the world’s smallest guard dog. “Up and at ’em!” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We’re going to the gym!”

I struggled to sit up. “Gym?” I asked. She was dressed for it, I saw. Her auburn curls were drawn up into a high ponytail, and she was wearing a form-fitting black unitard, bright white socks, and pristine white sneakers.

“Don’t worry,” Maxi told me. “Nothing too exerting.” She sat on the side of my bed and pointed at a schedule from someplace called the Inner Light Education Center. “See… here?”

“Self-actualization, meditation, and visualization,” read the course description.

“To be followed by masturbation?” I asked.

Maxi gave me an evil look. “Don’t knock it,” she said. “This stuff really works.”

I went to the dresser and started searching for appropriate self-actualization wear. I figured I’d tag along, and use the meditation session to see if I couldn’t come up with a plausible bit of dialogue between Josie, the heroine of my screenplay, and her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend. Or I’d contemplate my future, and what I’d do with it. Self-actualization and visualization sounded like New Age foolishness to me, but at least it wouldn’t be a waste of my time.

The Inner Light Education Center was a low-slung white wood building perched on top of a hill. There were wide glass windows, and a deck lined with sea grass and pots of impatiens. There was, thankfully, no valet parking.

“You’re really going to like this,” said Maxi, as we made our way to the door. I’d wriggled into Maxi’s oversized T-shirt, which was becoming less oversized by the day, plus a pair of leggings and sneakers, and the obligatory baseball cap and shades – the one part of her look I’d been able to adapt for myself.

“You know, in Philadelphia this place would be a cheesesteak stand,” I grumbled.

We entered a large, airy room with mirrors on the walls, a piano in one corner, and the smell of sweat and, faintly, sandalwood incense. Maxi and I found spots near the back, and when Maxi went to fetch us folding foam mats, I checked out the crowd. There was a pack of supermodel-looking stunners in the front, but also a few older women – one with actual undyed gray hair – and a guy with a long, flowing white beard and a T-shirt reading “I Got the Crabs at Jimmy’s Crab Shack.” Definitely a long way from the Star Bar, I thought happily, as the instructor walked through the door.